More Than Memory
by Snowfilly
Summary: It was a room; four doors, one window, nothing more. And yet it held everything that he held dear. Mickey's thoughts as Jack prepares to move away.


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More Than Memory

Disclaimer – All characters and settings are the property of Thames TV, and I am making no profit from their use.

Title copyright JRR Tolkien. Taken from Appendix A, The Lord of the Rings. "In sorrow we must go, but not despair. Behold! For we are not bound forever to the circles of this world, and beyond them is more than memory."

Spoilers for non-UK viewers. References to sexual assault and other disturbing parts of Mickey's history.

The office was almost empty now. Mickey had been trying to work throughout the day without taking notice of what was going on next door, but he'd seen someone take the nameplate off the door of Jack's office earlier. Now the room next door wasn't a sanctuary; just a place comprised of four walls and a door and a desk that would belong to someone else from two day's time.

Watching, it felt like a part of his life was ending.

'Mickey,' Stevie Moss called across. 'Mickey, what's wrong?'

'Nothing.'

Terry strode over then. 'Leave him alone, Stevie. He's just working out what to spend his pay rise on, that's all.'

'Rise?'

'Yeah. Oh, c'mon, Mick. They're giving 7-2 on you being his first promotion. I can get you 5's on Manson, or 100-1 on them getting someone called Burnside back, but everyone knows you and Meadows are like that.' Terry held up crossed fingers.

'Like what?' He demanded.

'Mates.'

'Leave it out, Terry.' He strode out the office, across to the room he'd once been afraid to enter.

_His first day at Sun Hill. The borough hadn't been living up to its name – the sky had had a watery shine to it, and the damp had eased tentative fingers down the back of his leather jacket as he stood alongside his car, maybe half a mile from the station. The rust on the door frame had flaked into his cold hand, disturbed by the trembling that he couldn't avoid. At least none of the vomit had got on his clothes__._

_God, he was scared. He knew no-one at Sun Hill. No-one in this part of the city. Not quite lost, but not sure of where to go from here._

_In the end, the drive there didn't take long. The car park was nearly full, and he pulled into the furthest free spot from the entrance. Walked-stumbled- his way into reception._

'_Hey, can I help you?'_

'_DC – DC Michael Webb. I'm -' and the black-haired Sergeant smiled. A genuine smile, with an air of cunning so well disguised that Mickey almost thought that he'd imagined it. _

'_Yeah. You wanna come and see the DCI?' His accent was East London; in build and appearance, he looked like a fighter. Mickey felt torn between the comfort of the familiar, and the wariness the man __instilled__in him._

'_Please.'_

'_I'm Matt Boyden,' the man called out, as he hurtled up the stairs. Mickey found he had to jump some of them to keep up. The strangeness of the tie snagging at his collar bothered him almost as much as the sour taste that was still in his mouth. His clean blue shirt had surely picked up the reek of his fear sweat._

'_His name's Jack Meadows. He's OK,' and with that, the Sergeant halted outside a door and rapped on it. Hurried off, leaving Mickey alone._

'_Come in.' _

_The Yorkshire-man's accent – Bradford? Leeds? Sheffield? – He didn't know, but it reminded him of cities somehow - was rough. Deep. A reassuring sound, compared to the DCI at Croyden, who'd been on the fast-track degree course and who had never seen Mickey's native streets at night; who had never learnt his name. _

'_C'mon, then,' and although there was an edge of impatience, there was no malice there. No hurry. _

_He slipped into the room, stood at attention for a second before realising how formal it looked, and then shifting his weight. The new leather shoes, brought yesterday, squeaked on the floor, and he knew he was blushing as he looked at the DCI and the room._

_Clutter everywhere. Filing cabinets and junk and a radio. A cricket ball rested atop the in-tray. A spare chair. A bottle of scotch and two empty glasses in plain view. And, not sitting behind the messy desk, but standing easily by the window, the DCI. Tall, heavy set, with chestnut hair and blue eyes, and an air of such confidence that Mickey relaxed immediately. _

'_I'm DC Webb.'_

_The DCI walked over; shook his hand. 'I'm Jack Meadows. What's your name?'_

'_DC Webb.' _

_A minute shake of the head. _

'_Michael. Mickey.'_

'_Good to meet you, Mickey,' and an hour later, he left the office wondering where the time had gone. At the time, he thought he'd met a good boss; one who__more than__made up for Dagenham, and he called out goodnight as he left the building later._

A good memory, even a decade on, but this time the door was open. 'Jack?'

'Didn't take you long.' Meadows was piling files into mounds that threatened to tip onto the floor. 'You want to help?'

The room looked strange now; perhaps because light could filter in without being blocked by cabinets. 'How long you 'ad to do this?'

'Fifteen years.' Dust plumed up from another file that landed on the desk. 'I think some of this lot was due back in the first week.'

'That's a hell of a backlog. You want me to shift that lot?'

'If you don't mind.'

He heaved the cardboard box, carried it over and dumped it on the floor in the Super's office. Although he'd known for a week, it still didn't seem right that Jack wouldn't be next door anymore. But moving the boxes needed doing, and over the nine years, Jack's work had always been his as well.

The fifth box was heavier, or maybe he was getting tired. A muscle in his right shoulder spasmed in protest; he rubbed it, digging with his fingertips to try and get at the pain as he walked back to the now nearly empty room. Just the same as on that first day, sweat was streaming down into his eyes and plastering his t-shirt to his body.

'What ya done wiv the pack mules, Guv?'

'They went on strike.' Meadows turned from taking a wall-map down. 'Looks empty, doesn't it?'

'Be a bloody echo if we take anymore stuff out.'

'Hey. Hey.'

Mickey smiled, then sighed. The office was as disquieting as he remembered his first home being, when he'd left at 16 and come back two nights later to collect the rest of his belongings, only to find them sold. It felt defiled, violated...and he felt he had an understanding of words like that.

'What's wrong?'

He glanced around, at the bare walls and clear window. At history and memories. 'You'll be so far away now.' The Super's office wasn't far away; he knew that, but the extra distance would be one of rank and income as much as geography.

Jack snorted. 'Nothing's going to change.'

'It is,' and he felt small, helpless. Shaken. 'You ain't gonna be here.'

'Sit down.'

His body obeyed commands from Jack without checking his brain. Complete faith lead to a simple, uncomprehending, obedience. Opposite him, Meadows sprawled into his chair – the old springs creaked once.

'Look at this.'

The noise of the drawer being forced open did echo in the room, although the dull thud of a cardboard box landing on the desk didn't. 'Go on.' Meadows pushed the box towards him, then pulled it back. 'I'll get these out,' and he rooted out one particularly thick file and returned it to the drawer. Slammed it shut with such violence that the entire desk shuddered.

'Go on. Look at those, and tell me if it matters that I'm going to be in a different office.' Meadows tipped the files out.

'What is it?'

'It used to be my odds and sods drawer. My junk.' The expression on Jack's face was somewhere between affection and pain. 'But it turned into yours. Ours.'

Mickey grabbed the first piece of paper he saw; one with a yellowish tinge.

_The spray-can felt natural in his hands; that and the wall in front of him; the men beside him were familiar in a way that horrified him. Gary Hughes was grinning; they all were. The dull ache in his right hand from the beating he'd helped them give someone yesterday was a pain from faraway. Not part of his life._

_The gang. God, it felt good to be part of the gang. Memories of police work flickered through his brain, but the company over-rode it. It felt good. Safe. He had a knife, and there might be a fight to come, but he could cope._

_In the office, two days later, he handed everything over. Tried to quit but was met by a steady denial. 'No. I won't let you. I won't.' And later, the first time Jack had shown anything more than a casual concern. 'They won't get you, Mickey. I promise they won't.'_

_Hidden in that, the unspoken vow. 'They'll have to get through me first.'_

_And his unspoken agreement. 'I know.'_

'You kept it all this time? The football files?'

'Yes. Have a look at the rest.' Meadows was holding one sheet, staring down at it.

_For those few weeks, he loved. They had only one night together, but with Kate, he discovered what love was. It was not sleeping at night, because the reality he awoke to was better than any dream his sub consciousness could conjure up. It was stumbling into work, half-asleep, and being met by Jack's grin. The shared secret – that Jack knew what he was dreaming of, and approved._

'_With Chandler...' He wouldn't cry. Not yet._

'_We'll get the bastard, Mick.'_

And they had...sort of. The closeness of those days was something like an insanity. Both of them driven beyond what they could endure, forced on by a mixture of fear and anger and jealousy. A_ day when Meadows had ordered him to leave, and dragged him into the office to sign the paperwork that would take him to Barton Street. A farewell that acted like a practice for all the other times that he would leave this man who was becoming the lodestone of his life. Hushed calls and guilty visits, until the night they'd killed a man._

_A gunshot, and a scream. Screams that he couldn't block out, and he __ran __towards the Super's office, because he knew Jack was around somewhere and Jack couldn't have been shot. Later that night, the drunken mixture of grief and rejoicing, because Chandler was dead and Mickey could come home. _

_When dawn had made its presence known, both men had still been sitting in the office. _

'I never wanted to send you away, then, Mick.'

'Why did ya?' It was something he'd never asked before; just accepted it as right because Jack had ordered it.

He shrugged. 'I didn't want him hurting you. Barton Street was safe. You can look at the rest, if you want.'

Files and files and files. Orders of service.

_Don had been a friend, Bolton a ginger-haired terror. Kate a lover. And at every funeral, they'd gone together, with Meadows sitting by his side as though by right. All the wakes they'd held here, cocooned in their sanctuary with memories for company._

_One day, too soon, it would be Jack's wake he attended._

'When'd ya start keeping all these?'

'When everything with Beech was going on, I suppose. I took some of your stuff away so they couldn't find it...Never returned it all, that's all.'

The admission made him smile. 'And that...all that's...'bout me?' Wonder shaded his face.

'You generate more paperwork than any two other DC's that I've had, put together, Mister Webb. Like after all that business with Fern...never had to sort out so many fictitious reports in all my life. Even MIT seemed to think so,' and he picked out one file.

He wanted to look at it, but it wasn't right. The other files had been in order and things had happened between Barton Street and MIT.

_Sitting alone in this office; not the first time he'd used it as a bolthole. Rolling the cricket ball from hand to hand until the stitches left rub marks across his palms, and then keeping on until blood smeared it. He couldn't get blood on anything of Jack's._

'_Mickey, are you okay?' and he explained. He'd leant against Jack, and tried to cry, but his grief had been too deep for that. Too deep – and partially aided by the growing realisation that, at thirty-five, he'd finally found his father on the day when he'd lost his mother. _

_Found a father who didn't hate him; a father from whom there would never be a raised fist or a blow; a father who would love and care for him. A father whom he would never measure up to, but who would not be upset by that. _

'You're not looking at that file, Mick. I haven't got it.'

'I saw ya put it in the drawer.'

'You don't need to see it.'

'It was a long while ago, Jack...I think, maybe I do. If we're going over everything.'

_He hadn't wanted to ruin the office by making that confession here. It was a sacred place, honoured by his memories, and couldn't be defiled by something like him now. It was gone, past. He was unworthy of that safety; of the concern and love he would find there._

_The autumn day in the graveyard had the same watery clarity that the first day had had. A fitting ending, and the smell of the damp air was thick enough to choke him. The wind seemed to whistle through his body, through the hollow, blood and semen stained emptiness that Delaney had left. His hands ached to find something to clutch, something to cling to and hold._

'_Jack?'_

'_Of course.'_

_And things weren't OK, and never would be again, but they were a thousand times better than he'd dared to hope they could be. _

' _I'm here.'_

'Mickey! Mickey, c'mon,' and in both memory and the present, he leant against Jack.

'You did keep it.'

'You still don't need to see it. Not yet. Look, that's all your MIT stuff there. See, you actually did paperwork for them. Where've I been going wrong all these years?'

Mickey opened the file; smiled. 'The boss was better looking than you.'

'Did you enjoy it there? We never spoke much...'

He shrugged. 'It was OK. I – I was glad to come back.'

_He'd dreamt it so many times since that first time he'd gone back to Sun Hill and found Delaney again. The little room, in dreams haunted by the rape and the trial and how much he was drinking, had taken on the significance of a church. In between the nightmares, he came back here; to sit and roll the cricket ball from hand to hand, to discuss cases and gossip, to stand enfolded in the circle of Jack's arms and have all the monsters kept away. _

_Jack would be pleased to see him._

_Jack would be disgusted and order him away._

_The old key fitted so well. It made less noise than the pounding of his heart, and he leant against the desk and hoped and the DCI had come into the room as the answer to all his prayers. _

'_Jack.'_

'_Mickey.'_

_And nothing over the next fortnight – the corruption charges and arresting Liz and the end of his marriage hopes – mattered as much as that. He'd come home._

'It's the same desk, y'know.'

'I know, Jack.'

'I thought I was hallucinating when I walked in and found you propping the desk up. Even when you started talking, I thought I was making it up.'

He wasn't going to cry in front of Jack now. Not now. But...it was hard. He didn't want to leave all this behind. 'What's that you've got?'

It was the piece of paper that Meadows had been holding, almost tenderly, since they'd started talking. Now, he slid it over the desk.

A photo. His own face, a decade younger, stared back. Dressed in a much less battered leather jacket and jeans, he was giving the thumbs up to someone. Grinning. The sky was vivid summer blue, and his hair looked very bright against it. Try as he might, he couldn't recall when it had been taken.

'Why'd ya keep that?' He'd never thought of anyone keeping pictures, keeping a history of him. It was like going into a family home and seeing pictures of the children as they grew up and went into their own lives...it was like nothing he'd ever expected.

Jack reached out and retrieved the photo. 'I just did. You'd been here about 5 months I think, and I had this new camera, and...'

'You kept it.'

'Of course. I've got more photos of you than Ben.'

He didn't try and brush away the tears as Meadows put the files back into the last box.

'C'mon, we're moving out,' and he shoved a pile of stuff at Mickey.

He didn't want to leave, but Meadows led and he followed. There was no option – there never was. Together, they walked down to the new office. He didn't want to go there; it was Heaton's, and he'd lost it with Heaton here, punched him because of Mia...all that was there. Mia...He hadn't thought of her for years, yet her presence seemed as close in this room as Jack's did in the old one.

Someone had put the nameplate up, he noticed. In between the pack mule duties, he hadn't seen. And pinned to the door below it, in Jack's handwriting, was a slip of paper with 'DC Mickey Webb' on.

'It stopped Terry's book,' he explained, and he let them both in. The new room no longer seemed so alien.

'Well, here's to the next few years,' and Jack grinned. 'Here.'

It was a key. No keyring or tag; just a grey metal key that was cold to the touch. A key to home. 'I promise not to gatecrash too often.'

'Gatecrash whenever you like...Let's go home.'

They walked down to the car park together and neither of them looked at the old office. It was only four walls and a window, Mickey told himself. Even the files and photos that he'd moved hadn't been important in the end.

He was and Jack was, and their friendship was far more than memory, after all.

1


End file.
